They broke from their huddle, and Mason’s voice rang out clear as the ball was sent in his direction. He moved back as the other team’s defensive line slammed into ours. He shuffled over to the right and fired the ball like a missile. Number 12, Andre Stevens, grasped at it with his fingertips and fell into the endzone.
“TOUCHDOWN BITCHES,” Chad bellowed as he jumped up, beer splashing from his red cup all over the bleachers. “TOUCHDOWN! Look at what you boy did?” Chad turned around and grasped me by the face, kissing me hard on the lips. “Touchdown, baby!”
Chad is not gay, not even that one time at camp if you know what I mean. He is a red-blooded, southern, country boy who likes to drink and cuss and watch sports with all of his free time. However, he loves to fuck people up. I’ve gotten used to it. He has roared like a lion in my defense many times over the years. He and Mike both have. I’ve been lucky with my choice of friends.
The rest of the game flew by in a blur. We missed the field goal, which always pisses mike off. He was the kicker at the high school and hates the guy we currently have on the team. He does miss a lot of the time, it seems.
But even with Mason’s touchdown throw, it wasn’t enough. We lost twenty-one to fourteen, and by the time we left the stands, we were feeling no pain. Chad especially. He must have thrown back two beers for every one that Mike and I had. Chad liked to party hard. All of us townies did.
We drove over in Mike’s pickup to the Omega house, where the boys were already in hard party mode. Chad was a brother in the fraternity, but Mike and I had decided that Greek life wasn’t for us. Honestly, we were both paying our way through college, and the frat dues were expensive. Chad came from a family that had enough money to help him. They owned a popular greasy spoon diner in town, which was great because we always ate there for free.
We probably should have stopped by and grabbed something before the party. All we ate were some stadium dogs, a bag of Doritos, and a shit ton of beer. We usually ate a ton before we went out on a binge night. We had discovered it lowered our chances of getting sick. I had grown tired of worshiping the porcelain god when I was a freshman. Chad, though, was our wild card. He had a beer before he attended his first class.
We played a couple rounds of beer pong with some of his brothers. They were cool guys, and both Mike and I spent a lot of time over at the house. As I carefully aimed my ping pong ball at a red cup setting in the back row, I heard a commotion.
My ball flew wide, and I turned to see what the hell made me miss. My jaw hit the floor.
The brothers were cheering and slapping some guys on the back as they entered the house. The football team had arrived. I picked up my beer and downed it, staring at the muscle smorgasbord that was walking through the door. I saw his shaggy brown hair before he entered.
Shit. Mason fucking McKendrick just walked in, and I would swear he glanced over at me.
Chad shot me a quick glance and laughed loudly. “Tonight is the night you talk to that son of a bitch.” He stuck his finger in my chest hard.
I swallowed hard. Why the fuck not?
